Seven Days
by Dialux
Summary: After Voldemort's death, there has been a lot of pain, tragedy, and anger. What was once easy... is no longer possible. Hermione and Ron no longer exist; Ginny and Harry is long dead. How do two children- now adults- cope with the confusion running through their society? Harmony!


_"You may not be her first, her last, or her only. She loved before she may love again. But if she loves you now, what else matters? She's not perfect—you aren't either, and the two of you may never be perfect together but if she can make you laugh, cause you to think twice, and admit to being human and making mistakes, hold onto her and give her the most you can."_

* * *

Harry falls in love on a Monday.

He is tired and half-asleep; the warmth of his bed calls to him and all he wants is to curl up for a little longer.

"Come _on, _Harry!" Hermione's voice floats to him through the sleep-haze, and he regretfully pushes himself onto his feet.

_I could get used to this, _he thinks as he washes his face. _To a warm breakfast and someone there for me._

The thought flutters away as he walks downstairs and greets Hermione, and he doesn't think it again, until he's watching her walk down the aisle to her husband- and it isn't him at the altar.

* * *

_"Tis better to have loved and lost/ Than never to have loved at all." _

* * *

Ron breaks up with Hermione on a Tuesday.

His voice is stuttering, and his blue eyes- the blue-curled perfection of a bachelor's button _(and that, Hermione thinks bitterly, tells her everything she needs to know about this man) _are wary. He called her 'beautiful but scary' a lifetime and a half ago; they are both adults, now, and she wonders how she could have ever believed in that morning-dawn-hazed-love. The flames of their passions have cooled; Hermione is only surprised at the cracks that form from his blunt rejection.

She doesn't cry though- she's the strong one, and crying in front of Ron will only call forth pity. The love she'd once hoped for has not become a soft carnation, but has bled into fire lily.

And Hermione is no delicate rose, to be pruned into blooming. She is a wild, brilliant heather, and even crushed… she still bleeds purple.

* * *

_"Trauma is hell on earth."_

* * *

Ginny presses cold knives against her wrist, and watches them bleed.

The scarlet blood is beautiful against the parchment-edges of her skin _(she is thinner, now, than ever before) _and sometimes all she wants is to bathe her hair in the brilliance of the ruby-jeweled beauty. She chose Harry out of all of the men in Hogwarts, chose him because he could give her the life she'd always wanted.

She pinned her hopes onto the Boy-Who-Lived, and what she didn't realize was that it was one weight too many.

It is a beautiful Wednesday, and Ginny Weasley lets her vision go hazy on her blood-grouted bathroom floor.

* * *

_"The one you love and the one who loves you are never, _ever_ the same person." _

* * *

It seems that years have passed since the end of the war.

Hermione walks in a haze; she holds nothing but purpose in her stride, and if her steps are just a little wobbly, it is no one's business but her own.

Ron remarries on a Thursday, but neither of his friends are at the wedding.

There is hatred, a lining somewhere in the depths of her heart, and Hermione fears the day she lets it take over. She pretends it doesn't exist- it's easy enough- but it grows every time she wakes up to an empty house and an emptier bed. _(The days when she sees him in Diagon burn the candle of her control just that much more.) _

"You always hated me," Hermione breathes as she watches her once-upon-a-time husband show off his ring. "But I never thought you were this cruel."

The words are muffled, spoken into her glass of champagne, and he will never hear her bitter _what-could-have-been _from her lips.

The congratulations at his reception are the hardest words she's ever spoken.

* * *

_"What's meant to be will always find a way."_

* * *

Harry kisses Hermione on a Friday, in a cemetery.

She was visiting Tonks' grave, and he was visiting Fred's. They hadn't spoken in months; work and numbness taking over their lives in a mix of confused grief.

_Neither of us are okay, _someone thinks from that graveyard. Nobody- not even themselves- know from whom the thought has originated. _But maybe… together we can be?_

It is a question, and a hope, and a desperate, desperate prayer woven into one crease. Harry presses his lips against Hermione; she kisses him back fiercely. When they break apart, the space between them fills with clouds of dusty breaths.

_Even apart, we are joined, _they think distantly. _Perhaps for once we won't be abandoned?_

The hope is painfully searing. The love is harsh and unforgiving. The dependence is frightening.

And neither would have it any other way.

* * *

_"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close." _

* * *

Their marriage is Saturday-evening-brilliant _(neither has ever had patience for expectations, and all the people they love stand in the bower anyways)._

Hermione wears a gown of filigreed lilac, and under the mounting brilliance of the stars, she shines like a nova unleashed. The steps are strewn with pretty jasmine petals; the smell lingers heavily in the air, and Harry just wants to sweep her off her feet.

Their love is not one for the ages. It is not beautiful and glittering diamond, like their love for Ginny or Ron. It is softer, a pile of sand- the leavings that are left behind when a job is finished, but beautiful if looked at at just the right angle.

She twines her hand around his wrist, like the flare of a bird's wings-

-and they kiss as simply as two equals after a long life's work.

* * *

_"Doubt thou the stars are fire/Doubt that the sun doth move/Doubt truth to be a liar/But never doubt I love." _

* * *

"I love you," she tells him on a Sunday.

It is not anything special- Hermione was washing the dishes, and Harry was cooking breakfast, and the scene is such _perfect _bliss, a bliss that neither had ever expected, that the words slip out.

_But, _Hermione thinks, as she whirls around and flings bits of soap water into her husband's hair, _when would be a better time?_

The honeysuckles and lilac are blossoming in the front yard; the scent of freshly mowed grass hangs heavily in the air. The sun shines brilliantly into the kitchen, and Hermione is content with everything she has for the first time in her life.

Their love flashes brighter than all the sun, in that moment between the two of them.

And Harry kisses his beautiful, beautiful wife, because he knows of no other way to express his emotions.

* * *

**So... I killed off Ginny. Honestly, any child faced with such a traumatic life (second year, anyone?) would have _problems. _I just used that plot hole shamelessly, in order to bring together Harry and Hermione:) And Ron's remarried. Quote at the top is Bob Marley. Hope you guys enjoyed it (I really am a Harmony shipper, so this one _worked, _yeah? Reminded me of my Luna/Harry fic last year!). Also, I did use the Language of Flowers as a symbolism guide. If anyone has anymore questions, about where the quotes are from- they certainly aren't mine!- I'll be happy to let you know.**

**Reviews really inspire me. Let me know if you guys liked/hated it!**

**-Dialux**


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